


Cold, Quiet, Dark

by wicked_wyvern



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wicked_wyvern/pseuds/wicked_wyvern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Frost spent a long time in the cold, quiet, dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold, Quiet, Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merfilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merfilly/gifts).



It is cold. Cold and quiet and dark.

One of those on their own is not what he would call fun. All three of them leave him feeling scared. He knows he is alone and he does not like it.

A chill has sunk into his bones leaving them cold and brittle. The absence of sound echoes in his head in a way that hurts. When he blinks the endless dark in front of him does not change.

He cannot move. He can feel the beat of his heart and it is slow, keeping time with the music of a funeral march.

He doesn't understand. Is he dead? He thinks he should be. There was something, something he had done. It was a good thing. He knows it was a good thing. A thing that he had needed to do even if he himself died.

This is not death. It is torture.

 

He spends an eternity with nothing but the cold and the quiet and the dark, counting the slow beats of his heart to pass the time. He has grown numb to his own fear. When a pale sliver of light slices across his face he wants to flinch away but he still cannot move.

Something moves him. There is a force at his back pushing him up and up and up. The light grows brighter and brighter until he can actually see what is creating it.

He thinks, oh. I know what that is. That is the moon.

He is pushed up and through a sheet of ice and suddenly he can breathe. He inhales deeply as he is still being pushed, up into the air and onto his feet. He stares at the moon and drinks it in even when the light hurts his eyes.

His feet touch the ice of the frozen pond as he floats down but he can barely feel the cold. He is too excited for it to register. He can move.

There is a twisted branch on the the ice and he steps forward to pick it up.

This is mine, he thinks and knows it to be a fact.

He is still cold. He does not want to be quiet and dark too.

So he laughs, giddy and loud and free as he paints the night with crystal frost and watches with glee as the moon makes it twinkle and shine.


End file.
